A permanent scarlet page, a tat, a brand in your cardiovascular system that never would very wipe down, despite duplicated effort. Despite ministry and outreach and remarriage and every effort at redemption. It merely discolored and lingered.
Because of that, I’d no idea how to deal with it whenever engulfing shadow of Divorce encroached upon my own personal lifestyle. Undesired, not willing, but without an individual alternatives or say when you look at the thing, I found myself acquiring separated. I was getting my first tat, scarlet red, want it or otherwise not.
I got not a clue what to do and the majority of everyone around myself didn’t either—because it actually was shameful and uncomfortable and humiliating and another of these affairs which we really do not communicate, some of those items that we really do not preach. Continue reading “I grew up in a culture in which divorce was a major stigma.”